


Having The Last Word

by DixieDale



Category: The Girl from U.N.C.L.E., The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 10:28:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21408682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: "Must it always be your way, Napoleon?  Must the decision always be yours?  Must you always have the last word?"He'd been accused of that any number of times, by many people, but most frequently by his partner, but had always dismissed the idea as the flimsy protests of those who should be GLAD to have someone as knowledgeable as himself making the decisions.  Now, Hungry Shadows Gap just might make a believer out of him.  Might make him question whether having the last word was really worth the price.
Kudos: 10





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Follows story 'Bridge of Choices, Bridge of Fate'

Hungry Shadows Gap was one of those nebulous places, gray and dull and boring to the eye; seeming both very far away from the fashionable part of Seattle, and yet oddly close at times. Far TOO close for some people's comfort quite a few times.

Smart people instinctively avoided the place, and the Gap shrugged indifferently. It was, for the most part, content in solitude, and truly smart people were already self-aware, didn't NEED the Gap or the insights it could provide.

Evil people often sought to use it for their own purposes; the Gap dealt with those quickly and firmly, being rather territorial. Besides, it knew evil rarely wanted new insights, having made itself comfortable with what it was and not likely to have any desire for change.

The truly innocent, however rare their appearance might be, were a puzzlement for the Gap and, as such, never harmed, never interfered with in any manner, but always eagerly observed. The Gap didn't really understand the concept of innocence, but found it oddly endearing somehow. 

However, not everyone fit squarely into one of those categories, and for them the outcome was rather different. For those individuals, the Gap occasionally felt drawn to, well, perhaps not so much to teach - more, it felt drawn to provide a little self-knowledge. To offer, if not a look into the future, perhaps a glimpse of the 'what-might-come-to-be'. 

That sometimes turned out well, sometimes not. Not everyone had the inner strength to deal with self-knowledge at the level the Gap tended to provide. The Gap was equally accepting of whatever decision the individual made - suicide no better or worse than a firm committment toward change. After all, it had no vested interest in the final outcome. Its calling was to provide insight, the opportunity for self-knowledge; what someone chose to make of that insight was their own business. 

But one thing it knew without question. The outcome would depend on each individual's strengths, weaknesses, and willingness to learn and, if necessary, change. But mostly, it would depend on recognizing the difference between truth and lie, especially the lies one tells oneself. It depended on acknowledging what was truly important versus all the rest.

Napoleon Solo had listened with a slightly-superior, if indulgent, expression to April's uncomfortable recounting of her experiences on that bridge; she swore she'd been shown life-altering choices and the results of those choices, although she remembered few of the specifics. He'd been slightly amused at the deep shudder she'd given; well, how many choices would have an effect as dire as she was making things out to be? 

In fact, he was a little surprised, that she'd taken it as seriously as she obviously was. He'd thought her stronger than that, more feet-on-the-ground sure of herself. No, he didn't intend to scoff out loud, that would be rude, but it was difficult not to. 

Oh, he admitted they'd come up against some things that were outside the bounds of what he'd call 'normal', and didn't discount the danger that could lie with such things. But to worry so about making the wrong choices? To have such self-doubts? That he just didn't understand.

He knew one thing - HE wouldn't never quail at the idea of some imaginary future choice, even choices, multiple. He had far too much confidence in his own rationality, his own actions. He was hardly likely to make choices so bad as to cause the haunted look in her eyes, now was he?

(Later, looking back at that overwhelming arrogance, he would flush with shame.)

They'd been sent to discover whether the recent deaths, the last in a long string of deaths in this area, was related to the Thrush Satrap that had just been established in the hills beyond. It seemed quite possible; the occasional unexplained death had been documented ever since the area had been settled, but they'd seemed to have died down a few years ago, or at least there had been logical reasons available for the deaths. The latest? Not so much. And even the local weather surely couldn't account for THAT many suicides.

They hoped to discover the answer to that question of who was responsible. Later they would revise that, change that to "hope never to come up against something like that again!" 

Well, yes, in some ways, that made sense. No one, in particular Napoleon Solo, would have described that as a comfortable experience, after all.

Still, without that illuminating experience, Napoleon rather thought he might end up with a world of regret. At least now he maybe had a chance to avoid that. Even if it took forceably overriding his most innate tendencies.


	2. First Sighting

The senior agent looked with satisfaction around the nicely-appointed room, the wide sliding glass doors leading out to the balcony with the polished steel rail. {"Yes, this will do quite well."}

Turning to his three associates - his partner, Illya Kuryakin, and the two members of the Dancer/Slate team, April and Mark, he resumed the conversation they'd started in the car.

"Eight deaths in two months, all out-of-towners. There's been no mention of any connection with Thrush, or 'Bristol Imports', as their cover operation is known locally. The police aren't listing any of them as suspicious deaths - suicide has been the official cause of death every time, even though there's been no suicide notes found, and in most cases, no obvious reason for the individual taking that dire action. No, it's this local bogey-man, or monster, or haunt, or whatever. That's what everyone seems to be blaming the deaths on. 

"Hungry Shadows Gap, the place is called. Another one of those places that get written up in one of those 'local legends and folklore' books that you guys keep picking up wherever we go," Napoleon had said with an amused shake of his head. 

His partner and the team of Dancer/Slate seemed to have a penchant for that sort of local nonsense. 

"Probably the locals think it's better than blaming the general gloominess of the place. I wouldn't be surprised if this 'typical Seattle weather' isn't partly responsible for what's happening. This much rain just can't be mentally healthy!"

Mark gave April an amused grin at that rather pompous comment from the senior agent. Well, Mark WAS English, after all, and didn't find the rain and mist they'd encountered in Seattle all that discommoding. But then, Napoleon didn't much like getting wet, got all stroppy when the rain mussed his fancy suits.

They could just see the so-called 'Gap' from the broad glass doors in the luxurious two-bedroom, two-bath hotel suite being shared by the four of them. Well, the senior agent had argued, it was more economical than two separate suites, (especially with the special discount he'd gotten from an old acquaintance), and even more so than four separate rooms. And far more convenient for conversation and making plans for handling their mission, of course.

Napoleon was rather smug at his decision; it provided him with some much-appreciated private time together with Illya, and Mark and April were used to sharing quarters when out on assignment. No, the younger team didn't have the same intimate relationship as Illya and Napoleon did, but Mark and April were good friends, and had no objections, having long ago formed their own matter-of-fact ways of dealing with close quarters without undue awkwardness.

On the way in from the airport Napoleon had offered them a choice between the Pattenton Hotel and the Marquessa Regency, both outstanding selections, both located in the booming tourist and hospitality section of Seattle, though stressing the Marquessa as the more expansive of the two in its culinary offerings. 

Illya had protested the need for a four-star luxury hotel in the first place. 

"Surely there is something more modest available, Napoleon!"

April had suggested a small collection of 'business travelers' suites' that she had used in the past. 

"They have their own kitchenettes, you know, and we could get things from the local markets."

Well, he knew they'd all enjoy the Marquessa much more than either of those. Small and modest didn't really sound all that promising to him. 

He'd just smiled, nodded, "well, while I'm sure both of those would do in an absolute pinch, if it makes no difference to anyone, I think the Marquessa should do nicely. And I'm told there's a nice view of that 'Hungry Shadows Gap' from the upper floors. That should give us a chance to get the lay of the land, so to speak."

That got a few eye-rolls. As usual, their senior agent was making the decisions and, again as usual, going the route of elegance, and it was THEIR expense accounts that were going to pay the price. The Old Man was going to have their collective hides!

As far as his description of 'gloomy', none of them could quarrel with that, at least as far as Hungry Shadows Gap was concerned. Gray, gray and more gray, with the added attraction of somehow appearing cold and wet, and the odd shadows that gave the appearance of swirling molten steel didn't much help the overall atmosphere.

"I expect that's partly what attracted Thrush to this area, all the old stories. Convenient enough, I suppose, blaming any odd occurrences, any unexplainable deaths on a local 'shadow monster' that drives you to suicide.

"And, no, I don't need to hear about that 'bridge' again. The more I think about it, I'm convinced our host was right. Sure, the place was highly-atmospheric, the castle, the falls, the mist, and it didn't help with him spouting that nonsense about 'the bridge doesn't exist anymore', or 'you can't get there from here'. I think Illya finding that nonsense in that book at the cafe just caused you to imagine a lot that never happened, April. And it's not like you remember anything in particular that would have gotten you so upset. Now, if you don't mind, let's just drop the subject of the bridge and progress on to something more relevant."

No, his fellow agent, well, agents, hadn't much appreciated that easy dismissal of April Dancer's rather vague recounting of her supposed experience; he was getting some rather pissed-off looks from the other three. But he WAS the senior agent. It was his responsibility to keep things on an even keel, and that included bringing them back to reality when one or more let their imagination get carried away with them.

As for Illya's offering, well, the least said the better. He still remembered it, though.

"Napoleon, the 'between' places have power. There is no dearth of stories, legends, from a multitude of cultures, and it would seem unlikely for them all to be wrong."

He'd snorted, "the 'between' places? What is that supposed to mean?"

"The places, perhaps the events, that lead from one crucial point to another. Birth is one of those. Death, another. A bridge, or really, any structure or event leading from one point to another, provided it is the only point of connection between the two. All have power - some call it the 'power of possibilities'."

"Yes, alright, whatever. Now, not to change the subject, do we want to order in, or eat in one of the restaurants downstairs? The seafood restaurant is rumored to be quite outstanding. Let's give that a try," he declared. 

As he was already straightening his tie and heading for the door, the 'discussion' was obviously over, the decision a foregone conclusion. They'd given each other a wry look and followed after. 

They'd already known it would be the senior agent's choice. Well, it always seemed to work out that way, and it was easier to go along with him, usually, rather than put up with his pouting. He'd never admit that was something he DID, of course, but that protruding lower lip just couldn't be mistaken for anything BUT a pout.

He led the way, unerringly making his way through the elaborate interior of the elegant hotel. Well, he HAD looked it up on the map at the front desk earlier, once he'd decided he had a taste for yellow-fin tuna. 

Illya had excused himself while they were waiting for the dessert to be brought, made for the small gift and sundries shop he'd spotted on the way in. There he found just what he had hoped to find, and tucked the small book into his jacket before rejoining the others. He had a feeling the more he knew about that Gap and the surrounding area, the better off they would all be. {"Perhaps foresight this time, rather than hindsight, as it was with April's Bridge of Choices."}. He'd scan it while he was taking a bath; after all, Napoleon would not be amused.

After that bath, though, he'd poured everyone a drink and read a few excerpts, over Napoleon's amused protests.

"If we can listen to you pontificate over the wine list, and the cheese tray, Napoleon, YOU can bear with me for a short while," Illya had insisted firmly. 

Napoleon had given in, good-naturedly, though whether he had actually been listening, rather than wool-gathering, was anyone's guess.

"It's called 'Hot Spots and Odd Happenings of the Local Variety', and it has a section on what we can see out there," he explained, and then started to read.

*'Hungry Shadows Gap is another such, a place that is said to offer knowledge, though false knowledge in many cases. 

Whatever is waiting there is said to be ever-hungry, eager to take a new life, any life to feed its raging hunger.

It lies, you know, at least sometimes. Accept that, understand that, for it lies so very well that most never can decipher whether it speaks lies or truth. It knows who, what you have in your life, and chooses to present that knowledge for its own benefit. It may distort that knowledge and make you gag on it. It may force true knowledge down your throat til you choke on it. Who knows what makes it decide what it will show?

One thing seems consistent. It, whoever, whatever IT is, it wants you, your emotions, maybe even your life force, feeds on that, and is willing to tell you anything to get what it wants. 

It may tell you that what you value is meaningless; that those you think care, don't, are oblivious to you and your needs. It may show you that you yourself are unworthy of possessing what you value, that you will, through your own failings, destroy what you care for. It tells you its own version of the truth, which often has little if any of truth within it. The problem is, sometimes that version holds a great deal of truth. 

It knows your strengths, and avoids crediting you with them. It knows your weaknesses, and exploits them mercilessly. 

The question is, are you strong enough to place your own version of the truth over and ahead of what you are being told? Strong enough to see when truth is offered to you, and use what you see to change the future?

Everything depends on that - that you be strong enough to endure and withstand, to see and learn, and use what you have learned.

Well, it doesn't hurt to have friends willing to fight for you either. For example, there is the story of Big Mike and his mule . . .'*

(The Gap would have found all of that amusing, in a rather detached way. That wasn't exactly how it saw itself, but being a purveyor of self-knowlege, of insights, probably that wouldn't have sold many books. Not nearly enough drama, for one thing.)

That was the point where Napoleon groaned and insisted, "that's enough, Illya. I'm in no mood to hear about Big Mike and his mule! Now, if you're quite finished rattling skeletons and summoning ghosts, I for one am ready for bed. We have a long day in front of us," Napoleon had offered with an indulgent smile, draining the last from his glass and rising. 

Mark and April took that as their cue, got up and went through the door on the far side of the spacious living room to where their bedroom awaited. 

Napoleon and Illya made preparations for a night together, and eventually settled down to sleep.


	3. A Closer Look

Now, sometime in the night, the senior agent found himself back in the living room, staring out the sliding glass doors at the Gap swirling in the distance. Feeling the pull, he opened the doors and went to stand at the railing, ignoring the light rain that was slowly soaking his hair and robe. He listened as a voice spoke to him, admonishing him, as if he were a careless, naughty child who'd broken a precious toy but refused to admit that it was indeed himself who'd caused the damage.

Finally, the words sunk in, and Napoleon could no longer deny the truth. Finally admitted it, harsh in his acceptance of the reality he'd tried to push aside.

"Yes! It was my fault! You don't have to keep telling me that, damn it! I KNOW it was my fault." 

Napoleon raged at the voice that kept whispering to him, that oh-so-cold, cruel voice, the one with no understanding, no mercy. 

He was somehow in two places at the same time - on the cold balcony of his hotel suite, looking out into a bottomless pit of swirling gray molten rock, and also in the chair behind that big desk in Waverly's office. Somehow, now HIS office. Sitting there staring down at the precise, impersonal message that had just been delivered to him.

His chest hurt, the pain radiating through his whole body, perhaps even BOTH bodies. They were separate, yet, somehow, still one.

{"Why should I expect IT, whatever it is, to show mercy, to be understanding? I don't understand, not even now, how I could have been so blind. And I don't deserve mercy. I certainly don't deserve to be sitting behind that desk, pretending to be Number One, Section One, not as bad as my judgement has proven itself to be, sending men and women out to die for a cause I'm no longer risking my own life for."}

Through his pain, he thought back over all the mistakes, all the bad decisions he'd made. The decisions that, in his arrogance, he'd assumed he had the right to make without input from anyone else.

When Waverly had died, when the Council had unanimously voted to put Napoleon in as Number One, Section One, he'd accepted, of course. 

He'd been groomed for the position for a long time, had expected it, though had never been anxious for the change. For one thing, it meant not working in the field anymore, not having Illya as a partner, at least in the official meaning of the term. And he knew he'd get pushback from the Council if he brought Illya in as his right-hand; even after all this time, they were still wary of the Russian, of his loyalties, no matter how many times he'd proved himself.

Still, Napoleon was getting close to mandatory retirement from the field; the timing was right in many ways, and there was no one else the Council felt could handle the job, at least on an immediate basis. Napoleon agreed; he WAS the only logical choice. While he'd discussed it with Illya, of course, it was desultory, him laying out the reality, not really asking for any input.

He HADN'T expected what had come next. Oh, he knew he would have to give Illya a new partner, had no justification for pulling his partner {"partner in so many ways!"} in from the field just because of HIS promotion. There was no sense in giving the Council any more reason to grumble in their proverbial beards, wonder about 'undue influence'.

Still, that had seemed an easy fix - April Dancer, who'd been relegated to the position of the Old Man's 'assistant' after the violent death of her own partner, Mark Slate, on that misbegotten so-called milk run in Costa Rica, had been chafing at the bit for a long time now, wanting to get back out into the field. Waverly had never permitted it, though, kept her near-chained to that office next to his. Perhaps it was time, and she and Illya should work quite well together. 

And they had, well enough that Napoleon found himself more than a little jealous. 

Perhaps that was part of why he'd felt that Illya was slipping away - well, that, and the time Napoleon had to spend behind that desk, his focus everywhere except on Illya. But between that and the time Illya spent in the field, it seemed like they had no time left for each other anymore. 

Perhaps it had been self-indulgence to think that had been harder on HIM than on Illya. Most likely it was, Napoleon had to acknowledge now, if only to himself. Selfless was not the best description of himself; in fact, he'd often been accused of just the opposite.

Still, when the pair had been so long overdue, when they'd been retrieved only at great expense, great cost, it was Napoleon who'd gone off the deep end, making some quick decisions. 

He'd ordered Illya to take early retirement, move to lab work, then, immediately. 

{"Well, he would have been immeasureably valuable there; no one could dispute that!"} he argued to himself, trying to justify that arbitrary decision.

The Council HADN'T disputed that decision, not formally, but they had taken due note that their Number One, Section One had lost, in their minds, all objectivity where his old partner was concerned. And, quietly, they'd put into motion an inquiry that led, well, at least contributed somewhat, to Illya making an unexpected trip to Argentina. 

(Now, Napoleon knew blaming the Council was just one more way of trying to rid himself of the guilt. It was HIS actions that had made Illya leave so abruptly, his and his alone.)

It was from Argentina that Napoleon received that brief communication informing him of Illya's resignation, effective immediately. Heard Illya's firm, unrelenting decision not to come back, not to discuss matters in person.

He still remembered protesting, asking why. Asking, IF that was what Illya had wanted, why he hadn't told Napoleon face to face, let him try to make him see reason. 

And that calm precise explanation, he'd always remember that, feeling the coldness in the pit of his stomach still. For a man of few words, Illya had spared none that day.

Illya had told him, "because you would have done exactly that - make me 'see reason', as YOU saw it, not as I did. I chose to make my own decision. I chose not to let UNCLE erase my memories, of my time with UNCLE, my precious time with you; not let them destroy my training, my abilities, as you know they would have if I were still within their reach. 

"I chose not to let you try and confuse my extremely rational decision with needlessly emotional histrionics, with your arrogant determination that only YOU know what is best. 

"Because, now, after all this time, it will be MY decision. This time, I choose, Napoleon. And you must accept my choice; I am due at least that much respect.

"And before you protest, may I remind you that, far more often than not, things have been as YOU chose, for yourself AND for me. Even now, you think it is your decision as to when I should retire from the field, devote myself to science. It is not so much that it is a BAD decision, you see, but that you gave me no say. Denied me that much respect, that much acknowledgment. 

"Well, I chose not to let you chain me in a kennel, close and convenient for whenever you needed my services, as Waverly chained April, as if I were a favored pet.

"Please note, I did not ask that you turn down Waverly's position, even knowing how it would change things between us. I did not seek to choose for you; I gave you the respect of putting aside my own reservations, my own needs, to give you free choice. 

"Do you not think it is time for ME to decide what I want? Staying with UNCLE, staying with you, has denied me that for a very long time. I have grown weary of allowing you to make all my choices for me. I am weary of the selfish disrespect you give me by denying me the freedom to make choices for myself."

Napoleon had been stunned, carefully closing his communicator when there was only the small signal telling him Illya was no longer there. 

He sat at that polished desk, remembering the smiling, confident face he'd put on, the celebratory dinner he'd served, to accompany his telling Illya of his decision to partner him with April Dancer. {"Telling, not suggesting, not asking how he felt about it."}

That scene had been repeated when, after Illya and April had been released from Medical after that last disaster of an assignment, he'd told Illya that he was being retired from the field early, would report to the Research Lab the following day. 

{"A very casual mention, more of a 'oh, by the way', rather than a respectful conversation between partners. And we WERE still partners, in some respects, anyway. Why did I not realized how he would take that declaration?"}

He remembered how shocked his partner had been, how Illya had protested. Napoleon, in his wisdom, had set that aside, overridden any arguments Illya could offer, not understanding, or maybe not being willing to understand, where those arguments were coming from.

(Well, April hadn't been any too pleased to hear she was being withdrawn either, but Napoleon wasn't sharing a bed, a bed and much more, with April.)

Yes, now it was easy to see that Illya's arguments had been, in large part, about having the freedom to choose; about having more say in what field of endeavor his talents might be put to use. About being treated as an equal partner, instead of as a possession.

Napoleon had discounted all that, a sudden seething jealousy overwhelming him, and they'd found themselves in a battle neither of them could have foreseen. 

That Napoleon could possibly have thought Illya had transferred his attentions, his affections over to the auburn-haired UNCLE agent he now shared a field partnership with - Illya was aghast that Napoleon could believe such a thing of him. 

Yet, they hadn't shared more than a few evenings together for months now, though if Napoleon had been honest with himself, that was his doing more than Illya's. 

Well, he WAS the one that had the new team racing around the world, then co-opting Illya for urgent work in the lab in between jobs. When Illya was free, then Napoleon was on the other side of the world meeting with his fellow leaders of Section 1, and when he got back, there was barely time before a new crisis had the team of Kuryakin/Dancer off and gone again. 

He hadn't realized til that violent argument that somehow he'd been placing the blame for that squarely at Illya's feet, somehow internalizing the absence as deliberate, a shifting away of affection, instead of a result of how frantic and disassociated their lives had now become.

It was only afterwards, long afterwards, that he had the courage to admit to himself that it wasn't the pulling in from the field that Illya had objected to so much; after all, he WAS a brilliant researcher and would most likely have relished the challenge. 

No, it was the arbitrary announcement, along with the implications in that offhand announcement that "and I believe London or Berlin might suit April quite well. I will arrange that tomorrow. If you wish to say your goodbyes, you probably should do it immediately. I expect she will be gone within a few days." 

If he thought he was being subtle, that the firm separation of the new partners wasn't recognized for exactly what it was, he was mistaken. 

Illya HAD recognized, and perhaps NOT so subtly, scoffed at the very idea that Napoleon needed to be jealous. 

"That is absurd, even for you, Napoleon!" 

Even knowing Napoleon's pride, a pride bordering on if not entering the realm of royal arrogance, Illya hadn't expected the resulting explosion of temper, of bitter accusations. 

He certainly hadn't expected the harsh accusation of ingratitude, "considering how much I had to argue the Council into keeping you in New York after I was promoted. THEY were worried about your access, were worried it might cause you to be tempted to take advantage in various ways. A Russian, a Communist, so close to the head of Section One, New York! 

"Well, they were right, if not in the ways they meant, weren't they??! You took advantage, alright, with April. Oh, don't try and deny it! I remember those long nights on stake-out, the quiet rooms after a job was done. I know the need, the temptation! I REMEMBER! It's not like you've been around all that much to provide, to share, NEWER memories, now is it??!"

The cold quiet click of that softly closing door rang in Napoleon's ears louder than if Illya had slammed it. 

By the time he got to the office the next day, Illya had already left for Argentina, after that, Napoleon had been told by the Council, he supposedly headed back to Russia. 

Had been told "as you are certainly well aware, it was his decision, Mr. Solo, his alone. And a very wise one, in our estimation, if he was feeling any doubts about where he belonged. No, we have no knowledge of his future plans. We DO assume you had him, um, 'debriefed' before his departure. Otherwise there could be serious repercussions, and we would have to take remedial action."

He'd lied, then, to the Council. Told them that "yes, of course he was debriefed. That's standard procedure." 

Hopefully they would never know differently; it wouldn't be pleasant, all around, if they found out that Illya had left with all his memories intact. But to have told them otherwise would have resulted in an elimination team being sent after his ex-partner, and he would do whatever it took to prevent that from happening. It was the least he could do, having failed in a multitude of other ways to protect one of the very few people in his life he could truly say he loved. Perhaps the one he'd loved beyond all others. 

Well, his partner was gone, the apartment where they'd shared so much now also gone. Number One, Section One required a different, more secure domicile, as evidenced by the attempt on his life one foggy morning the month after Illya had left. No, no real connection, just happenstance, but he wasn't deserving of the bittersweet memories that surrounded him there, memories that gave him some slight semblance of comfort, he knew that, and leaped at the opportunity to be away and gone.

He'd been specific in his requirements, and they'd been met, every one of them. He now lived in a gray steel and glass tower, in an elegant and spacious apartment as cold and gray and lifeless as the exterior of the building indicated. The furniture was gray leather, the floors a platinum-toned substance of some sort. The walls matched the floors, the light fixtures as well. The only artwork that graced the walls was a large abstract done entirely in grey and black with a faint, almost invisible pencil line of maroon. The whole effect was as cold and gray and lifeless as he felt inside, and somehow that seemed right. 

Warmth wasn't for him; he'd devoided himself of that by his own actions, and didn't think he deserved anything more. If his Illya ever returned, then he'd maybe rethink, find someplace different, but for now, this was where he belonged, encased in cold, gray steel.

Now, months later, he sat reading for the twentieth time, the brief message from the Council.

"Ex-UNCLE Agent Kuryakin has been reported to have been killed in an armed attack. We have no reason to think it was connected to, or in any way affects our organization, therefore we would not suggest any further investigation into the matter. Please mark his file "Retired - Deceased"."

{"I'll have to call Berlin, tell April. She'll ask questions, of course. Well, I don't have any answers, do I? Funny, I used to think I had ALL the answers, no matter what the question was."}

He rose and walked over to the cabinet where Waverly had always kept his brandy and Scotch. Now he poured a tall glass of the latter, downing it in one quick tilt of his head, ignoring the harsh burn as it hit his throat, his stomach. Yes, it was good Scotch, the best, but that much, at one time, was more than even a tin-lined stomach could bear with equanimity.

{"Answers. Dear God, no, I don't have answers. Regrets, now, those would fill an ocean."}

He didn't let the tears fall until he reached that cold gray tower, the mausoleum he now called 'home'. 

{"Yes, that fits better. A mausoleum - somewhere above ground where you store someone who's dead. That fits. Illya's dead. What we had, could have had, is dead. And I'm dead. My heart just hasn't quite gotten the message yet."}

It was another six months before his heart got the message, loud and clear, and decided to go do what he should have done long before - follow his partner, follow Illya, wherever that might have taken him. 

Six months to the day, by the calendar he, now solely an observer, saw on that desk. A desk where a reluctant April Dancer now was seated, trying to make sense of the position into which she now found herself being thrust so unceremoniously.


	4. Better Understanding Comes Late, Than Not At All

"Napoleon? What are you doing? It is frigid out here! And you are soaked!!!" a voice came from behind. 

Napoleon winced, aching at the familiarity of that voice. He didn't dare turn around, knowing he'd see nothing, no one. {"You'd think my mind would stop doing this, after all this time,"} he thought painfully. Phantoms, especially those bearing the voice of the one he'd loved and lost, all through his own arrogance, seemed to be his constant companions anymore. 

Yet, somehow this seemed different, more real, somehow, and he hesitated. He'd been giving serious consideration to just tipping over the side of that metal railing, anything to stop the misery of those memories. God, he was SO tired! So tired, so lonely. So damned sorry!!!

The voice didn't come again, and he calmed, searching the swirling eddies below, letting himself be hypnotized by their macabre beauty. 

{"Just an easy leaning forward. It wouldn't be all that hard. The railing's just at my upper thighs. Just a little bit more gazing into those molten circles, just a little more leaning over, and it would be done."}

Then, the voice, that much beloved voice, was back, but it wasn't alone. It was now joined by two other familiar voices, one male, one female, all three now urging him back inside, back into the warmth, their hands urging him as well.

He found himself reluctant to give in to their entreaties. {"It would only mean doing it all over again, someplace else, some other time,"} he'd told himself with resignation. He didn't have the strength for that, not anymore.

But the conjoined voices had kept at him, not letting him distance himself as he wanted to, and finally he'd turned, to see the three waiting for him, pulling him into their warm arms. Feeling Illya pull him into a tight grip as if never to let him go. And in that moment, knowing they were real, that Illya was real, alive and here, he made a new resolution. 

From now on, he wouldn't try to make every decision by himself. 

From now on, he would give up some of the power he'd clung to so fiercely. 

For he now understood, what he'd gained by that arrogance, that selfishness, was nothing in comparison to what he could lose. 

He remembered that lettering he'd seen on a tee-shirt once, "if you love something, set it free. If it is truly yours, it will come back. If it does not, it was never truly yours." He remembered how he'd shaken his head in amused disgust at the naiveté embodied in that statement.

Now, he looked into fierce and questioning blue eyes and made a promise, if unspoken. But then, he knew he couldn't leave the words unspoken, that 'unspoken' was just another way of denying responsibility, leaving him a loophole in his new resolve.

"I won't try to run roughshod any more, I promise. I won't try to make all the decisions, won't always try to have the last word, not anymore. You have the right to make your own decisions, make your own choices. I understand that, Illya, I swear. But, please, oh, please . . . Choose me? No matter what I have to give up to make that happen, I swear, I will, Waverly's desk included. Just, please . . . Stay with me? Choose me?"

And the warmth of the eager arms enfolding him, told him that, if he kept to that promise, that had a good chance of becoming a reality.

Mark and April slid away once they were all back inside, giving them some privacy, April going to run a hot bath for their friend to ward off the chill, Mark to pour them all a stiff drink. 

Somehow, he just knew they were going to be talking long into the night, at least what was left of the night. Whatever had happened out on that balcony must have been something extraordinary for the great Napoleon Solo to make that sort of a promise. He whispered to April when she came back, "Mr. Always Has To Have The Last Word, letting someone else call the shots? Now there's a miracle for you! And not even a bridge in sight!"

April nodded, "but remember what Illya was saying - it's not always a bridge, sometimes just a 'between place'. Perhaps Hungry Shadows Gap is one of those between places; perhaps our friend got a glimpse of a future HE didn't much like either. I wonder if he'll have more luck remembering the details than I did?"

Off in the distance, the Gap nodded. Yes, it was most likely the man would remember; that would be best, after all. He was obviously a stubborn individual, inclined toward selfishness, far too imperious for his own good. He would need those memories to keep him on the better path he had now resolved to walk.

For now, the Gap was satisfied. He'd scanned the area, found no one else in need of its insights. For now it would rest and watch. Sooner or later another would come, another who could use a goodly dose of self-knowledge.

Well, it would rest after it rid itself of those men who'd thought to set up shop in ITS territory. "Thrush. What kind of a name is that, anyway? 'Vulture' would be more appropriate. Trying to use my reputation to cover their own deeds! I don't think so! I explained that to those others, quite clearly. I imagine the few remaining will listen just as closely, make the right decision."


End file.
